


thy morn shall rise, and all thy day be bright

by spilled_notes



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, Fluff, nothing really happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 19:59:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11169021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spilled_notes/pseuds/spilled_notes
Summary: Midweek mornings off have always felt illicit to Serena, quiet time to be relished while the rest of the world is hard at work.





	thy morn shall rise, and all thy day be bright

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a tumblr prompt: I wish you'd write a fic about Serena Campbell having the morning off and spending the time rolling around her house in comfortable woollen socks and a whole bunch of knitwear and drinking her favourite type of tea (and maybe sharing the morning w Bernie but also much earlier in her time line is v good too) and her just generally being happy w good morning vibes.
> 
> Title from the hymn 'I heard the voice of Jesus say', which has been set to the Tallis melody used by Vaughan Williams in the Fantasia Serena listens to.

With no alarm to herald the start of the day Serena wakes slowly, drifts back and forth in that delicious liminal space between awake and asleep, cocooned in her duvet, face buried in soft pillows. When she finally opens her eyes properly, blinking against the winter sunlight spilling through the gap between the curtains, it’s still not really late, far from a lie in by anyone’s standards, but certainly late for a Wednesday.

She yawns, stretches luxuriously, and smiles. Midweek mornings off always feel so illicit, like she’s skipping school, the knowledge that the rest of the world is hard at work while she doesn’t have to be in for hours yet.

She doesn’t stay in bed much longer, gets up and tiptoes across the cold floorboards to dig out a pair of fuzzy socks, wiggling her toes happily when she slips them on. Next is a thick woolly jumper pulled on over her pyjamas, the sleeves long enough that if she curls her fingers her hands vanish inside. Much better.

Downstairs she switches on the kettle and then the radio, smiles when [Vaughan Williams](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ihx5LCF1yJY&spfreload=10) pours out. Spoons leaf tea into the warmed pot, leaves it to steep while the toast grills. Butter and jam (raspberry, seedless) and a glance at the headlines in the morning paper, then fresh water in the pot and she relocates. The radio has moved onto Wagner now and it doesn’t feel like a _Nibelung_ kind of morning so she exchanges it for a CD of Bach, curls under a blanket in her armchair with her book and a cup of Darjeeling in the perfect shade of amber, relishing the empty hours in an empty house.

*

Another winter, another Wednesday, another morning off. But this time she isn’t alone. As she dozes she’s aware of the warm body beside her, and when she wakes it’s to the sight of Bernie, a mess of blonde curls with her face pressed into her pillow and one arm flung out, hand dangling over the edge of the bed. She’s still fast asleep, got in at goodness knows what time after a late shift that just kept extending. Serena had half woken when she slipped under the covers, enough to claim the goodnight kiss she missed, to ignore Bernie’s protests and, with a shiver, wrap herself around her cold body.

Serena smiles fondly, watches her sleep for a while and then presses a kiss to her shoulder before getting up, carefully tucking the duvet around her again. She doesn’t have anything to do this morning, no reason to get dressed or go out. So tea, toast, Bach and her book, a steaming mug and a blanket plenty to ward off the chill of the frosty morning.

She’s run out of tea and almost run out of book when she hears light footsteps overhead and then down the stairs.

‘Hello you,’ she smiles, closing her book around her finger as Bernie pads over, rubbing her eyes and yawning. ‘Sleep ok?’

Bernie nods, takes the hand Serena offers and bends to brush a kiss to her lips. ‘Thank you for letting me sleep in.’

‘You needed it, after the shift you had.’

Serena tilts her head hopefully, her nose nudging Bernie’s, and is rewarded with another kiss, still soft but this time lingering.

‘So this is how you spend your mornings off, is it? Tea, Bach, and rereading _Carol_ for the umpteenth time.’

‘What can I say, I appreciate the classics,’ Serena smiles.

‘Mind if I join you?’

Serena raises her eyebrows. ‘In this chair? I know there’s not much of you but I think that might be a bit of a squeeze.’

‘I don’t mind cuddling up,’ Bernie says suggestively.

‘One track mind, you,’ Serena scolds lightly, catching at Bernie’s hand before it can slip under the neckline of her jumper and kissing her disappointed pout away.

‘Sofa?’ she suggests. ‘Being all scrunched up won’t do either of us any good.’

Bernie nods, steals another kiss before straightening up. ‘Fresh pot?’

‘Please, darling.’

Serena waits, listens to the kettle boiling and Bernie rummaging in the fridge and cupboards, until she comes back with a tray: the teapot, another mug and a bowl of fruit. Only then does she rise from her warm seat, the blanket around her shoulders like a cloak.

They end up half sitting, half lying, Bernie reading over Serena’s shoulder and periodically offering her cubes of mango and melon, and dropping kisses to her hair.

‘Not how you usually spend your mornings off, I imagine,’ Serena says later as, both showered and dressed (but still in woolly socks) they potter around the kitchen together making lunch.

‘No,’ Bernie admits. She sets down the bowl of salad, slips her arms around Serena’s waist and rests her chin on her shoulder. ‘Not complaining though,’ she murmurs. ‘Think I could even get used to it.’


End file.
